All The Difference
by meetmeinstlouie
Summary: A moment between husband and wife in the kitchen downstairs, and speculation about what happens after. He wonders if she is upset with him, but her response, a kiss, and an endearing nickname reassure him otherwise. UPDATE: Originally a one-shot, now an intermittent continuing story.
1. Curmudgeon

He loves being married to her.

He _loves_ it.

But there are times he worries he is too old, too stubborn, too resistant to new things.

The last thing he wants is to make her regret marrying him.

He is trying, slowly, to change. But at the Abbey, he is the Butler, and it is difficult to unbend himself from his stiff exterior. When Mrs. Patmore finds herself connected to a scandal, it is his default position to worry about the reputation of the family he has served for so long.

The cook and her assistant set off. His wife, supportive as ever of their friend, wishes them luck. What comes out of his mouth is impulsive.

"Good luck to us all, in the vain hope that we'll avoid scandalous gossip."

She shakes her head, moving toward the doorway.

"You're such an old curmudgeon!" She sounds exasperated.

"Don't say you're going off me." He says it lightly, but his expression betrays a sliver of his anxiety. _Perhaps this will be the straw that breaks the camel's back. First with the cooking debacle, now with this nonsense. She's probably wondering why she agreed to marry me, old booby that I am._

She turns around, keys jingling together at her hip. "No," she says. Something in the way the word curves off of her tongue makes his heart flip. There is a hint of a smile on her face, but more of it in her eyes.

He reminds himself to breathe. The affection she conveys simply by looking at him still astounds him. She steps closer.

"Because you're _my_ curmudgeon, and that makes all the difference."

Standing on her toes, she grips his left arm and kisses him on the cheek. The touch of her lips on his skin reassures him in a way nothing else can. She trails her hand down his arm.

Happy, he raises his eyebrows at her as she smiles back.

The Butler is disappearing inside the man. For most of his life it was the other way around. He is a man who loves his wife, and cherishes her love for him. She has freed him. Freed him from a solitary life. He is free as he has never been before. Free to receive her kiss. Free to unburden himself. Free to love her the way she deserves.

The fact that she kisses him in the kitchen, where anyone can see them, does not bother him at all.

The only thing that does is that he did not kiss her properly.

0000000000

She adores being his wife.

She _adores_ it.

Even when he frustrates her with his outdated remarks, his clinging to the past.

It is who he is, she reflects. She's known that for a long time. And she accepts him the way he is.

The Housekeeper is mostly gone now, replaced by a woman. Oh, she still does her job well. But he has freed her. She is free to laugh out loud. Free to let her guard down. Free to love him in the way she has wanted to love him for many years.

The frisson of heat that licks down her back when his eyes flicker to her lips nearly makes her come undone. She almost kisses him on the lips, just for that. At the last moment, she remembers they are not alone downstairs, and she leaves a lingering gift on his cheek instead. She hopes it will be sufficient until later.

It is.

Barely.

The sun is still setting in the west when he stops within sight of their front door. The kiss he gives her then makes her cheeks glow like the burnt-colored sky. She returns it, loving the feel of his arms around her, holding her close.

They half-walk, half-stumble their way into the cottage. She laughs, biting her lip, thinking of how they are dashing away like two young things forty years younger, and of the day he sang of how she stole his heart away.

She knows she will struggle in the morning to find all of her hairpins.

And he will have to ask where, exactly, his collar went.

But none of that matters when they are alone in the bedroom. In their bed.

Their movements in symmetry.

He is always careful with her, ever the gentleman, never pushing her beyond what is comfortable. His touch drives her to behave in ways that embarrass her later. But he assures her that he does not think less of her, no matter what she does or - more often - what she says, in the throes of passion. If anything, he seems rather proud of the fact that he elicits such reactions from her. His wide smirk drives her to playfully slap his arm, which only makes him laugh.

She loves hearing him laugh.

'Go _off_ him'? How could he even think such a thing? She knew when he said it, that he meant it. Underneath the even tone, she heard the voice of the man who asked her on a Christmas Eve night what they were celebrating.

She knows how his reserve hides a gentle heart.

It is impossible to resist her curmudgeon when he looks at her with such open adoration. His fingers caress her face, her unbound hair. She reaches out to touch the soft hair on his chest. Her left hand only rests over his heart for a moment, before he lifts it to his lips and brushes his lips across her knuckles.

He rubs his thumb across her ring, and they smile at each other.

They belong to each other. And that makes all the difference.


	2. Rain

**A/N: This** _ **was**_ **intended to be a one-shot, but…reasons. And prompts on Tumblr. This is to satisy chelsie-prompts "Rain".**

* * *

She thinks she can make it home in time.

The fact that it is her half day alone makes her hurry along.

But the low clouds and the tension in the air, like the air holding its breath, tell her of the coming rain.

She has yet to reach the lane to their cottage when it catches her.

It comes down hard, steady. Slightly in her face.

When she does look up only steps from their door, she looks up from under the brim of her dripping hat and sees him waiting in his shirtsleeves and braces.

"… _he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice…"_

Her heartbeat is already accelerated from the pace of her walk; now it flutters in anticipation.

He holds the door open for her as she comes in. Her cheeks are flushed from her walk.

"You should not have walked home," he says. He cannot stop himself from worrying. "You'll catch your death-"

"Och, I am fine," she says lightly. "I was almost home. A little rain won't hurt." She removes her hat and hangs it up. "Right now, I am rather warm."

She is.

It is the end of March, the coming of spring. She unbuttons her coat, anxious to remove its sodden weight.

He goes to help her with it, to help peel her arms from the sleeves.

That is all he intends.

Really.

But after he hangs her dripping coat, all he sees is a line of water that has dripped from her hair to her temple, running down the side of her face. He catches her hand before she brushes it away.

Kissing her cheek, he tastes the droplet of water on his tongue. It tastes of the wind, and fresh air, and warm days to come. Life.

And her.

He slides his arms around her, her hands beneath his, her back against his chest. She feels the press of his large hands against her waist, her belly. There is no tremor today.

Just the solid presence of her husband behind her. His kisses continue down her cheek to her jawline. Slows against her neck.

"Charlie, _oh-_ " she stammers out a gasp, shifts her weight. Her heavy skirt is soaked through. As much as she enjoys his attention, she wants, needs-

"Let's get you out of those wet things," he murmurs in her ear.

The rumble of his voice almost makes her knees give out.

He follows her upstairs, not letting go of her hand.

"… _Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone…"_

Outside, it drums against the roof.

She sits on the bed while he removes her shoes. When he goes to stand, her hands find the buttons on his shirt. He shrugs off her touch, but it is not because he does not want it.

"You first," he whispers. He should draw a hot bath for her, let her soak while he prepares lunch. But the way she peers up at him from under half-lidded eyes tell him of a different desire.

She spoke the truth earlier. Her skin, despite her wet clothing, is warm.

So is his.

Her hands on his broad shoulders as they kiss, his soft lips on hers as they tumble into bed. She laughs when he pauses only to draw down the sheet for them to climb under.

She has learned to remove her hairpins and set them aside with lightning speed. She does not want to encourage gossip in the village.

The fourth time she had to buy new pins the shopkeeper raised an eyebrow.

"Now," he says, a smile on his mouth as he looks down at her beneath him, "there was an errant drop of water on your face earlier. It seems to have disappeared. I must…find it…"

Drawing his face down to hers, she kisses him deeply. Her fingers in his hair.

He does not use the pomade as liberally as he used to.

His warm breath against her throat makes her moan. She listens to the steady rain as he travels well south of her collarbone, to places that for so long were hidden, forbidden to him.

Her breath comes in short bursts.

Grinning at her, he slides up to plant a short, sweet kiss on her lips before continuing his exploration.

This side of him, her playful lover, is new. The first time he appeared was in Scarborough. But he disappeared almost entirely when they returned to Downton.

Since his retirement he has relaxed in ways he never thought possible. He does miss his work, sometimes more than he admits to her.

But only sometimes.

He is no longer the butler, but a husband now. And there are aspects of that role that far outweigh the role that defined him for most of his life.

His wife draws a ragged breath. Wordless whispers escape from her mouth.

"Elsie, love," he hums, enveloping her in his arms once more. Her damp hair is spread across her pillow. His breath comes faster at the feel of her body against his. He is utterly dazzled by her at moments like this – whatever possessed him to want to continue working?

Maybe, he thinks in a daze, afternoons like this will get her to at least _think_ about retirement.

He will not force her out of harness, not if she wants to continue being the housekeeper. But he hopes it will not be long before she relinquishes the chatelaine forever.

Her hands press on his back. Insistent.

A flicker of lightning outside flashes across their faces; his dark eyes, her open mouth.

The accompanying thunder only partially masks their joy in each other. The long echoes rumble, vibrate on the floor.

The two in the large bed are insensible to everything outside it.

Rain pours from the eaves of the roof as they kiss, whispering their love.

Later, after they have slept and she has savored a long bath, they share an early tea. He opens a window to let the fresh, cool air make their home smell like the outside. The sun glows orange under the dark grey clouds, sparkling through the glass.

She slides her hand around the back of his neck and teases him. "You must like the smell of damp earth."

"That," he tugs on her braid. "And the rain." He kisses her lightly on the cheek. "Like you."

" _The flowers appear…the time of the singing of birds is come…"_

It rains again that night as they sleep, wrapped in each other's arms.

* * *

 **A/N: The quotes are verses from the Song of Solomon (King James Version), chapter two. They are in order, from 9-12. Ah, these two! If you are so inclined, please tell me what you think. I hope you all had a nice Easter!**


	3. Life

**A/N: So I have a hundred things I could/should be doing and writing, but…this happened. It's unedited, and written in a flash, but I wanted to get it out there for Unofficial Downton Season 7.**

 **I picture Baby Bates to be around nine or ten months here.**

 **Cheers! Let me know what you think!**

* * *

Elsie is in the sitting room in her chair when she startles awake. The only sound in the room is of the ticking clock. She didn't mean to nod off while sewing; her eyes had gotten heavy and she had set down the little shirt she was working on.

A glance at the clock tells her that her slumber on this Sunday afternoon has lasted for well over an hour. She sets aside the shirt and gets up, feeling stiff.

 _Where are they? What are they_ _doing_ _?_

As the thought passes through her mind, she hears Charlie heave a sigh.

"Well, lad, we've made a mess. We'd best clean it up as best we can before Mrs. Carson wakes up and catches us."

A little voice, an answering coo, babbles something. Her heart melts at the sound.

"Hmmm, I know. She won't give either of us tea, or probably dinner either. I need a bit more than bread and water, don't you?"

The sound of her husband, once the formidable butler of Downton Abbey, talking to Will Bates as if he were speaking to the Reverend Travis after service, nearly makes her laugh out loud.

Will has been staying with them since Friday. His parents are in the process of buying an inn near Withernsea. Elsie does not like the thought of Anna and Mr. Bates moving so far from Downton, but she knows they must move on with their lives. In the meantime, both she and Charles are keen to spend as much time as possible with Will, their grandson in every way other than blood.

 _Speaking of moving on, when you retire you will be able to visit all of them much more often!_

 _Charlie would like that as well. Among other things._

He clatters in the kitchen, talking to himself and the baby.

"Let's set you here for now…just for a moment, mind. I need to clean the floor first…"

Elsie hears the groan of a chair being pulled back from the table. Overcome with curiosity, she tiptoes across the room and peeks into the kitchen.

And stuffs her knuckles into her mouth to keep back a gasp. Or a laugh. Both.

Flour, and a lot of sugar, are all over the counter and on the floor. Will, seated in the chair, inspects his hands. All of him, from his blond ringlets on his head, to his bare toes, are covered in white powder. The unmistakable smell of a cake wafts around the warm room, reaching her nose.

Her husband has his back to her, sweeping. He sets the broom against the wall and picks up the baby.

"I suppose it would have been too much to hope you wouldn't lick your hands," he grabs a cloth from the counter and wipes Will's face, neck and hands. His own face and shirt are sprinkled with white. If he had any more of it in his hair, he would look like Father Christmas. "Never mind, it's only flour and sugar." He balances the boy in one arm and leans forward, giving him the cloth. "Could you get all the spots off? I can't see where all the flour is on my face-"

Elsie cannot hold back her mirth any more. "Oh my lads," she chortles, leaning in the doorway, "What _have_ you done?"

Charles takes the cloth from Will, who had been dabbing at his face. His wife laughs merrily. She is beautiful to him always, but when her face is lit up like it is now, she seems even more so.

Several strands of grey hair have come loose while she slept, and she's dressed in an old skirt and an even older blouse ( _I must take her to get some new things soon_ ), but at this moment she looks like a young girl.

It reminds him of the day he caught her and Mrs. Patmore laughing downstairs at the Abbey. He had asked her what was so funny, and she had told him, " _Just life._ "

He grins and busses Will's cheek.

 _This_ _is_ _life. Our life now._

 _And I could not be happier._

"We wanted to surprise you and make a little cake for tea," he explains as she makes her way over to them. "I think we remembered how to do everything. We didn't want to wake you."

She goes up on her toes to kiss the baby, and to caress his cheek with her finger. He drools and shows her his four teeth. His eyes look like his father's, but he gets his smile from his mother. "You were very successful. I didn't wake up, and I am _very_ surprised. And were you very helpful to Mr. Carson?" she asks Will. "I'm sure you were."

Charlie baking is a surprise to her. He has helped out much more at home, especially now that he's retired and she still works, but she had thought baking without guidance would be a mountain too high to climb for him.

"He was," Charles says proudly. "I told him each step we needed to take, and each ingredient. He made sure it was all correct."

"I should tell Mrs. Patmore you were listening when she visited last week," she says, her hands on her hips. "She'll likely fall over when I tell her you baked a cake!"

He bristles a little. "If Daisy can do it, why can't I?"

"She would tell you, and Mrs. Patmore too, that it isn't that simple. _I_ could tell you that."

"I know," he softens slightly. The memory of the cooking debacle earlier in their marriage is not far from either of their minds. "But you were working all week, then yesterday you hardly sat down even after I told you I had dinner ready. I wanted to make things a bit easier this afternoon, while you were home, so you could rest."

"You have done that. And more." He has done so much while Will has been staying at their home. Cooking and washing up after meals, taking down the numerous laundry. Reading to the bairn, and holding his tiny hands, encouraging him to walk across the sitting room.

Gently, she smooths her hand over Charles's.

His hands never tremble when he holds Will. Or when he helps Master George hold his kite, or when Miss Sybbie hands him a teacup when she visits.

They do not fail him later when he feeds Will some of the cake.

It is not up to Abbey standards, he tells Elsie. She rolls her eyes. "It's quite good enough for us."

He tells her to put Will to bed after dinner, and he will wash up. Or at least set the dishes to soak.

She carries the sleepy boy upstairs. His weight gets heavier with each step, but she hardly minds. Especially not when he snuggles against her shoulder. He is off in dreamland before she has wrapped the blanket securely around him.

The Carsons do the washing up together. This evening, he washes and she dries. They go upstairs, and peek in the bedroom next to theirs.

Will is sprawled asleep, his arms above his head.

"He will sleep well tonight," Elsie bites back a laugh, shutting the door quietly. "I am glad. He won't be fussy for his mum and da tomorrow when they return."

"I am glad as well," Charles slides his arms around her waist. His lips brush her cheek, and the soft spot below her ear.

He helps her remove the pins from her hair.

She helps him unbutton his shirt and vest.

 _You can have all of me_ , her eyes say. _Always._

His heart pounds at the feel of her soft hands on his bare skin.

She tries not to moan too loudly when he pulls her closer. His gentleness, in places only _he_ may touch.

He thinks he cannot be any happier, not while their kisses grow ever more passionate, not while they move together, not while she whispers his name.

Until after when they lay sated in each other's arms. He is drifting off to sleep when she says his name again.

"Charlie." She sighs, her hand on his chest, her fingers lazily moving through the silver hairs there.

"Hmmm?" His eyes flicker open. She kisses him, lingering for a minute, before meeting his eyes.

"I'm going to retire."


	4. Autumn

**A/N: It's been forever, but I craved some canon-ish gentleness, someone asked for more from this, and then, Friday evening, inspiration struck. (Thank you, September, and the coming of autumn).**

 **I guess this isn't really a drabble/random thing anymore, since I keep continuing the main story. I don't have any plot set out for them here; in my head, they live in a bubble world of love/happiness/family/friends. Kind of like Anne of Green Gables, where no one changes.**

 _ **One**_ **of my stories has to be like this. For my sanity, if for nothing else. :)**

 **I hope you all are having a good start to September! Thank you for the nudges and sweet comments. You all are lovely.**

* * *

Elsie finishes drying the breakfast dishes and puts away the toaster, humming under her breath. She turns to see her husband in the doorway. She thought he had gone out to the shed to paint the little table for their sitting room.

"I know you planned on going to Mrs. Patmore's this afternoon for tea." Charles has his hands in his pockets, his shirtsleeves up. He gestures with his head towards the front latticed windows. "But it's very fine out for late October…I thought we could go for a walk now."

"Oh! What a lovely thought," she smiles at him. "Right you are. I'll just get my hat from upstairs."

They set out from their cottage at a leisurely pace. The morning _is_ fine. Dry. Cool, of course, but the rather chilly breeze is tempered by the bright sunshine.

Elsie closes her eyes to savor its warmth. "I'm glad you suggested a walk. Otherwise I would have been engrossed in my book."

Smiling down at her, Charles tucked her gloved hand more securely between his coat and arm. "And what adventures is Mr. Poirot having this time?"

"Well," she begins, eager as always to share with him, "He was about to leave to go to South America when a man named Mayerling somehow got through his _upstairs_ window and collapsed on the floor*…"

As they walk down a path off their lane, the familiar lilt of the former housekeeper of Downton Abbey mingles with the crunch of leaves beneath their feet. The faint rustle of those still left clinging to the branches above them adds to the peaceful scene.

Charles is grateful beyond words that Elsie's retirement has gone smoothly – and even more, that she has taken to the new chapter in her life so well. He had worried that she would be bored at home all the time.

Bored with _him._

She is not.

At all.

Rather, she enjoys small things. Savoring teatime, instead of rushing through it. Reading all the books she likes. Leaving milk outside their backdoor for the stray cats.

Taking walks in the middle of the day.

Lingering in bed in the mornings.

Charles's smile grows.

 _Finishing breakfast past nine o'clock today!_

 _It would have been later, if I hadn't needed something to eat._

She had announced her intention to retire in mid-September. Both Carsons had expected the family to want their long-time housekeeper to stay until the New Year, at least.

Instead, everyone upstairs had made it clear that she was free to retire as early as she wished. It was not because they wished her to go – rather, it was out of respect and love for her and the former butler.

So after over a year of working as housekeeper without her stalwart husband at her side, Elsie Carson had given the chatelaine to Mrs. Baxter on the 1st of October.

She had returned to the Abbey soon after, of course. Once to advise the new housekeeper on the linen rota. Twice to go sit with the cook in the quiet afternoons, just to talk.

And five times – twice in the first week she was gone, and once a week thereafter – to visit Master George and Miss Sybbie.

"Charlie?" She shakes her head, smiling. "You haven't been listening to a word I said! I'll have to tell it all over again!"

"Which you won't mind at all." He stops her, and takes her other hand. "I do love hearing these stories from you."

"Hmph," she pretends to be put out, but they both know she isn't. "You _could_ read it yourself."

"I read _The Mysterious Affair at Styles_ and _The Murder on the Links_ at your prompting," he protests. "But Mr. Poirot's adventures sound so much more exciting when they are told in a Scottish accent."

"Which is quite a feat, considering he's Belgian," she ripostes. She does enjoy their gentle sparring.

"More's the pity," her husband whispers, leaning closer. She hums at the sensation of his lips touching hers.

These moments, and these days, are the happiest she has ever had. She is free from the long years of work (though it is understood she will continue to go to the Abbey for big events). Most of her friends are close by, and she sees them often.

Anna and Mr. Bates have moved with Will to Withernsea. The Carsons will be visiting them soon.

Standing beneath the colorful trees on a bright morning in October, with her Charlie kissing her, Elsie feels a gratitude too deep for speech.

Love is a gift that has been given to them both late in life. It has blossomed when most people would have thought the chance of it had come and gone.

 _An autumn romance._

Her younger self would have thought it unlikely. If not impossible.

She has mused since their marriage that she and Charlie cherish their union more, because they know how rare it is.

A marriage that existed, in certain ways, before either of them acknowledged its possibility.

Its reality now is something very precious.

They walk through a shower of golden leaves, stopping often to kiss.

On their way home, on the spur of the moment, the Carsons decide to walk to the village.

They greet a few people they know. Dr. Clarkson is genuinely happy to see them. After Bonfire Night, he says, he wants to have them come for dinner, since they were kind enough to host him during the summer.

Mr. Branson stops to talk with them a little further down the street. He is going to have lunch at the Grantham Arms, and invites them to join him.

To Elsie's surprise, but very great pleasure, her husband accepts the young man's invitation.

"And how does Miss Sybbie like school?" She asks as the three sit in the cozy room, eating shepherd's pie. "The last time I visited her and Master George, she was trying to convince him to _play_ school with her."

"She loves it," Mr. Branson grins, his pride evident. "She's learning fast. She has lots of little friends already – the village children are quite taken with her. She makes friends with anyone."

"Like her mother," Charles comments, not unkindly. He sips his beer.

"And her father," Elsie says. Mr. Branson gives her a grateful nod.

They talk about his shop with Mr. Talbot. It is doing well, too.

"We are happy for you," Charles sits back in his chair. "Though we will never buy a car, it's wonderful others don't feel the same."

"You might change your mind, Mr. Carson," Mr. Branson leans forward, a gleam in his eye. "Your wife, if I might say so, always has an eye for modern things."

"But not for a car," Elsie says firmly. "I am sorry to disappoint you, but on this I must agree with my husband. We prefer to walk to the Abbey or to the village. Besides," her eyes twinkle, "When we _really_ have need of a car, we have a reliable friend who gives us rides."

Mr. Branson laughs. "Indeed, Mrs. Carson."

The walk home is colder. The wind has picked up a bit.

"If he had not walked to the village himself, I would have asked him for a ride." Charles says, holding his wife close. She shivers. "Are you all right, love?"

"I am." She smiles up at him from beneath her hat. "I think a hot cup of tea sounds nice, though."

That, and a nice fire crackling in the corner, warms her up quickly. She begins to protest when he brings over first her shawl, then a thick blanket to put over her knees.

"Charlie, there's no need for all that," she pulls her unfinished letter to Anna closer across the table. "I'm _fine_."

"I just don't want you to catch a chill," he says, a worried tone to his voice. Her heart melts.

She reaches up to touch his face and lets him spread the blanket over her lap. "How can I, when you take such good care of me?"

After he finishes painting the table in the shed, it is her turn to fuss over him. She insists on him taking a hot bath, and when he comes back downstairs, she has tea ready.

"I thought you were going to Mrs. Patmore's," he says, sitting down and picking up a biscuit.

"She rang while you were in the bath. She said we can postpone our tea for another day, when it's not quite so blustery. She said she didn't want to walk to her house when it looks like rain."

Elsie does want to see her friend. But she is glad that their plans have been set aside. The morning sun has gone, replaced by cold, grey clouds filling the sky. Charles is on his second biscuit when light drops begin tapping against the windows.

"I am glad you're staying home," he takes a piece of toast from her gratefully. "I would have worried had you left, only for it to start raining ten minutes later. It was good of Mrs. Patmore to ring."

She gives him an impish grin. "So you _are_ happy Mr. Branson convinced us to put in a telephone."

Chewing his toast, he rolls his eyes at her. She laughs.

The rain drums against the windows, but the cottage is full of light and warmth. Elsie finishes her letter to Anna, and then re-reads the last one Mrs. Bates had sent out loud. Then Charles reads from the newspaper.

They are happy, and content.

Together.

* * *

 ***Agatha Christie's** _ **The Big Four**_ **(published 1927)**


	5. Withernsea

**A/N: Mild TW for mention of past events.**

* * *

He wakes in the dark. Habit, perhaps, but it has been long enough since his retirement for it to be unusual. When she stirs next to him, he sighs and feels for her shoulder.

"Did I wake you?"

"No." She curls into him, turning to kiss him. "I woke and couldn't go back to sleep."

"We should try," he murmurs. His nose is full of her scent. "It's going to be a long day."

"Mmmm, I know."

They are both quiet. The gentle ticking of the clock should be enough to lull him back into dreamland, but she is warm in his arms, her head tucked beneath his chin, and try as he might, he is only becoming more awake.

Especially when he feels her hand stroke his cheek. The shell of his ear.

He turns his face and kisses her open palm. Her breath hitches.

Taking her hand in his, he continues kissing it. His warm breath on her ring. The tip of his tongue flicks on her wrist.

"Oh…" she ghosts out a whisper when he kisses her fingers. She clears her throat, feeling equally unsettled by his attentions and comforted by her husband's love.

She is more used to it now. The fluttering in her belly. Wanting him.

 _Home._

"Charlie-" It is becoming harder to breathe. "-oh, I do love you, you dear man." She whispers.

"I love you, my Elsie." He leans forward, burying his fingers in her unbound hair. Kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her eyes. He stops when she moves. In truth, she is trying to get more comfortable, but he doesn't know that. "If you don't want…I mean, if you're not sure…we _do_ need to sleep," he stumbles over his words.

He never wants to force her.

He never has.

"I have never been so sure." She smiles in the dark, thinking of that moment in his pantry. It makes her heart race to think of it now. Wrapping her other arm around his broad shoulders, she draws him closer.

Their lips touch. Mouths open, wordless murmurings. He groans when her nimble fingers find the buttons on his pyjamas shirt. Her hand is soft, caressing the hair on his chest. In response, he kisses across her cheekbone to a certain spot beneath her ear.

She gasps, a little whimper in her voice. "We can sleep on the t-train later."

The bed creaks.

Far away, the eastern sky begins to lighten.

* * *

She nods off against his shoulder. Her mouth is open, breaths coming out in little puffs. Once he would have been appalled at either of them sleeping in public – on a _train_ , of all places – but now he finds it endearing.

Comforting.

 _She_ is home, wherever they are, he thinks. He gently pulls out the letter from the pocket in his coat so as not to wake her.

Mr. Bates' words resonate with him.

… _We miss Downton of course, and all our friends. But we have made a home here. Anna insisted we re-paint the rooms at the hotel white. I disagreed at first, saying they would show wear more often, but of course she was right. It brightened the place at once! She always has a knack for knowing what looks most appealing._

Charles smiles. The former valet of Lord Grantham knows he is blessed with his wife, as much as the former butler is.

 _Will is growing so fast. Enclosed is the most recent picture of him. It was made* in October, by a photographer who stayed for several days._

 _We look forward to your arrival on the 28th._

 _Sincerely,_

 _J. Bates_

Will has a wide grin, with several teeth showing. It looks as though he is laughing.

"Your grandson is a handsome boy." The young woman sitting across from them smiles, gesturing at the picture. "How long has it been since you and your wife saw him?"

A thousand thoughts crowd into Charles's mind.

 _He's not –_

But even as he thinks it something in him rebels. Will is their grandson. In every way that matters.

"Thank you. We think he's a handsome lad, too. And smart." He smiles down at the picture, turning it more towards the woman so she can see it better. "It's been two months, since early September."

"You must miss him terribly."

"We do." He shifts a little on the seat as Elsie lifts her head. She blinks, her eyes fluttering open.

"Hello," she says shyly to the woman. Charles can tell she is a bit embarrassed to have been seen sleeping on the train.

"Good afternoon," the woman nods cheerily. "Your husband was just showing me a lovely picture."

"I was boasting about our - grandson," he says to Elsie. "I know I shouldn't."

She gives him a glance that says everything. It speaks of the life they have shared together, even before they married.

They did not have a family in the same way most people do, but it doesn't matter.

They have one now.

"You _should_ boast about Will." A little smile turns the corners of her lips up, makes her eyes sparkle. "As his grandfather, you're allowed to do that."

* * *

The sea air hits Charles in the face. He tries to block some of it, holding the car door as Elsie gets out, but there is not much he can do.

"Oh my," his wife says, putting her hand up to make sure her hat doesn't blow away. "It _is_ windy!"

Timothy, the young man who works for Mr. Bates, calls from the boot of the car.

"Go on inside, Mrs. Carson! I'll get your luggage."

She and Charles walk half-bowed, hand in hand. Clouds race each other across the sky above them. The little hotel John and Anna bought in Withernsea sits on South Queen Street. The house they live in is just opposite. There is a glimpse of the sea down Pier Road, but both Carsons are more eager to get inside at the moment.

The door opens right as they reach it.

"Come in, come in," Mr. Bates greets them eagerly, ushering them into the warmth.

He has just closed the door behind Timothy when Anna appears with Will on her hip.

Her familiar gap-toothed smile brings tears to Elsie's eyes. "Anna," she gasps. "Oh, my dear girl-" A moment later she and the younger woman are embracing, Will squeezed between them.

"It is _so_ good to have you here," Anna whispers. She laughs, wiping away a tear, and hands Will to Elsie. "Though Mr. Bates and I won't pretend we are the reason you're visiting."

"There is more than one reason. Hello, my lad," Elsie coos to Will, kissing his cheek. Her heart melts when he smiles at her and buries his blond head against her shoulder. "My, you have grown!"

Behind them, Charles and Mr. Bates shake hands.

"I can't tell you how delighted we are to have you both here," the younger man says. "You're our first guests from Downton."

"I thought his Lordship would be the first," Charles replies. "I understand he and Lady Grantham will visit sometime before Christmas."

"Yes." Mr. Bates insists on taking Charles's hat, then helps him remove his coat, as if the former butler is Lord Grantham himself. "They would have come sooner, but of course they wanted to go to Brancaster."

Lady Edith has given birth to a son barely a fortnight before.

"Of course." Charles's face softens at the sight of Elsie holding Will. He reaches out and gently touches the tiny boy's head. "Who _is_ this big lad? I don't know him!"

"Hasn't he grown, Mr. Carson? He'll be as big as you in no time," Anna says. Her smile is so wide it almost splits her face. She watches Elsie hand Will to Charles. His hands are steady.

"Hello, lad," he rumbles, letting the baby touch his nose. "Do you remember us?"

"He does," Anna reassures him as she takes Elsie's hat and coat. "We made sure of it. The picture of both of you from your wedding is in our parlor."

They all go into the sitting room, which is bright with a merry fire. Charles reluctantly hands Will to his father so he can help Elsie take off her coat. Waiting for them is hot tea on a tray, apple tart, and plum cake.

"Delicious," Elsie sighs. "Thank you very much. That's just what I needed." She sets her fork down on her crumb-filled plate.

"Your apple tart is better than Mrs. Patmore's," Charles says to Anna, leaning back in his chair. His eyes widen. "Don't write and tell her I said that, mind."

"I won't," Anna giggles. "Thank you, Mr. Carson, but really it's down to Mrs. Patmore that the tart is any good – it's _her_ recipe. She gave several to me before we left."

"You give yourself too little credit," Mr. Bates smiles at his wife, cuddling Will on his lap. "You are a good cook, too."

"I hope you get to enjoy Anna's cooking often, Mr. Bates," Elsie says. "Having the hotel across the street must mean you get to come home during the day."

"I do." He kisses Will and wipes the corner of his mouth with his handkerchief. "I come home for luncheon, and I always try to be home by tea-time."

The next morning, he takes the Carsons around the hotel. It is a cozy place, not new, but well kept. Elsie compliments Mr. Bates on the work he and Anna have done, and agrees with him and Charles about the color of the walls.

"It gives the place more of a seaside air," she says as they go down the main corridor again.

Mr. Bates leans his cane against the desk by the front door. "I agree. The rooms used to be all different - red, green, purple. It was nice to have a spot of color…but Anna thought painting the walls white would make everything much brighter. And she was right, of course."

That afternoon all of them walk along the promenade. The air is chilly, but the wind from the day before has died down. Sunlight makes everything clearer.

Charles and Elsie walk with her hand linked through his arm. Until Anna puts Will down. Then the older couple walks slowly on either side of him, holding his hands.

"He's doing well," Charles clings to Will's little fingers. "His legs are a bit shaky yet."

His own legs aren't shaky, but his hands are. He notices when they are back at the Bates' house and he's trying to remove his gloves.

"Here," Elsie says in her steadying, quiet voice. She deftly removes his gloves, then holds his right hand in between both of hers. She can feel the tremor.

He huffs out a frustrated sigh. "It hasn't happened for weeks."

"You're tired," she says. "We were traveling yesterday, and neither of us got much sleep the night before last." A rather cheeky grin appears on her lips. "I take part of the blame, but not all. _Someone_ who is not a gentleman kept me awake."

That makes Charles smile. "I would have thought a lady like yourself would have put him off."

"But I'm _not_ a lady," she tilts her head. Her eyes are full of love.

"Fortunately," he rumbles, kissing her.

He does consent to take a nap. Anna puts Will down for one as well, and joins her little boy, pleading fatigue as well.

Elsie is left to her own devices for a while.

She tidies up the kitchen and the sitting room, then sits and reads another of Poirot's adventures. She has just started a letter to Mrs. Patmore when Mr. Bates comes in.

"Oh," she smiles up at him. "I didn't expect to see you until closer to tea."

"Knowing we had guests at home, I told Timothy to stay at the front," he hang up his coat. "It's a perk of being my own boss."

"It certainly is," she agrees.

"Is Will asleep?"

"He is," she sets her pen down. "Anna too. _And_ Mr. Carson."

"I'm glad Anna's resting," he says, building up the fire. "She hardly ever sits down – you know that."

When he brings her tea, she protests.

"You didn't have to do that, not just for me! I'll have to make more later for the others!"

"I don't mind. And _you_ won't get tea or anything else for anyone later, or at all while you're here," he raises his eyebrows. "I saw how neat the kitchen was. You are very kind, Mrs. Carson, but you're our guest. Let us treat you like one."

"Very well," she tells him. "The housekeeper in me still has trouble remembering I'm retired at times."

"I'm sure." He pulls out a chair across from her and sits down. "Actually, I'm glad we're alone right now. I wanted to talk to you while you were here."

"What is it?" She asks, her eyebrows knotting together at his serious expression.

He runs his hand along the table, his eyes down. "I owe you an apology," he says, after a long silence.

"For what?" She cannot think of any reason why Mr. _Bates_ owes her anything, least of all an apology.

He clears his throat and finally meets her eyes. "For bullying you. After Anna was…attacked."

His voice trails off. To Elsie, it feels like the cold air outside has reached inside and touched her heart.

She does not like to think of what happened the night when Dame Nellie Melba came to Downton. From the pain on Mr. Bates' face, neither does he.

"I told you I would leave Downton if you didn't tell me Anna's secret," he mutters. "It was not your secret to tell. I laid an unfair burden on you." He shifts in his chair. "And then, to make matters worse, I made you swear on your mother's grave that you didn't know who hurt my wife."

"I don't blame you for wanting to know what happened," she whispers. She sees it in a different light now, now that she is married. If someone hurt _her_ Charlie, she doesn't know what she would do.

 _How angry would I be?_

 _To what lengths would_ _ **I**_ _go?_

She remembers confronting that horrid man in the boot room. And that had been for Anna's sake.

"All the same," Mr. Bates leans forward, "I should never have spoken to you the way I did. You have been nothing but kind and generous to Anna. And you've given me good advice on occasion." The corner of his lip turns up and he glances at his knee. "You once said we all carry scars…I'm afraid I added to yours. Will you forgive me, Mrs. Carson?"

She thinks of how Anna's spirit was nearly broken, of Mr. Bates's wrath. Of Lord Gillingham's valet, the man she refuses to name even in her own mind, the demon who caused so much pain. Of Sergeant Willis, of police, of fear and wrongful arrests and husbands and wives separated from each other.

Then she takes a breath and sees where she is. Where they are. In a home full of love, that has seen nothing but happiness. A thriving couple, and their growing boy.

And a sunny future for them all.

"Of course I forgive you, Mr. Bates," she says shakily. She feels tears in her eyes even as she smiles. "Thank you for your apology." She lifts a cup of tea to her lips. "I've found living life means getting scars from time to time. It's what we do with them that matters."

 _Letting them heal, versus keeping them open._

"I hope yours are healing," he says, pouring himself a cup of tea. "Anna will always have hers. I accept that now. But thankfully, these days joy is more her companion than pain."

Elsie gives him a knowing smile. "Though if I am correct, she will have more of both next summer. Pain, then joy."

His shocked expression makes her heart leap, and his words confirm her suspicions. "How did you _know_? Did she write, telling you about the baby before you came here?"

"She did not," she drinks from her cup again, then wipes her mouth. "You told me, Mr. Bates. Just now." She does laugh at his bemused expression. He laughs too, shaking his head.

"So now the only one who doesn't know in this house is Mr. Carson."

"I'll let you and Anna tell him. Though I don't like to keep secrets from my husband," she confesses.

 _Even happy ones._

 _Especially happy ones._

"We won't make you keep it long," he promises.

They tell Charles at dinner. He of course had no inkling of it.

"That's wonderful news!" He congratulates them jovially. "Will is to be an older brother! No doubt he'll be a fine one."

"I'm certain he will," Anna beams. She leans over and kisses her son's curly hair.

"Not that you'll know before the bairn arrives, but do you think the baby is a boy or girl?" Elsie asks.

Anna shares a smile with her husband. "I don't really know. Truly. John would like a daughter."

Mr. Bates sets down the bottle of wine. "I would be happy with a daughter, or a second son," he protests. "All I know is that we are delighted to add to our family. And that we are very, very blessed."

"Hear, hear," Charles lifts his glass. Elsie lifts hers, and John and Anna lift their water glasses. They all laugh when Will waves his spoon. "To blessings," the former butler toasts. "To your family, and to new life."

"To new life," they repeat. Elsie drinks her wine, meeting Mr. Bates' eyes.

 _To the future, not the past._

He lifts his glass a little, and she knows what he means to say.

 _Amen._

* * *

 **A/N: *I don't know what the term in 1920s Britain was. All I know is that my Midwestern American great-grandmother always referred to someone having their picture taken as having their picture "made". She was born in 1911. I used the phrase as a nod to her.**

 **You all are so generous with your comments and reviews! Thank you! This chapter is for the Unofficial Downton Abbey Season 8 for Tumblr. I'll try to post at least two more over the next couple of months. Cheers!**


	6. Photograph

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your support of the last chapter! It quickly became apparent that I was** _ **not**_ **the only person disturbed by that canon scene in S4 between Elsie and Mr. Bates.**

 **Now for something different. Posted a day late, and without editing, I hope you all like this. Cheers!**

* * *

The sitting room in Mrs. Patmore's house is quite modest, if crowded with furniture. Two stuffed chairs, a desk in the corner with another chair. Two chairs on either side of a small round table. A loveseat along the wall, with a good view out the window. A wireless sits on a table in the corner, with a bookcase opposite it.

"Most of my guests prefer to spend their time here out of doors," the cook tells Elsie. "When it rains is the only time anyone is in here. Or in the evenings, when one of them wants to write a letter."

The former housekeeper of Downton Abbey smiles. "It is a pleasant room. You've had steady lodgers, then."

"Yes, thank the Lord," Beryl sighs. "And I thank his Lordship, and the family. It was a boon for me, them coming to have tea here, after…"

Her voice trails off, and she dusts the table around the wireless. The reminder of the scandal that threatened her livelihood is still quite fresh. In her mind at least.

Elsie stifles a wider smile and the temptation to laugh. She never will admit to her friend how amusing she found the whole thing.

Maybe she will. In a few months.

Or years.

"It was very kind of them," she says, straightening Henry James and E.M. Forster on the bookshelf. "I understand Lady Grantham has been here for tea once since then."

Beryl brightens immediately. "She did. An old friend from America was traveling through Yorkshire, and she wanted to have an English tea in just a quiet, 'normal' house. Not in a hotel, or at the big house." She grins. "Lucy and I were in the kitchen, but we heard the two of them laughing for half an hour straight!"

"It is nice her Ladyship could spend time with her friend." Elsie follows Beryl into the kitchen. "Especially after so many years."

"I thought _I_ would have to wait years until having tea with you again," the red-headed woman chuckles. She sets two pieces of cake on plates, and pours tea. "You retired, and then you vanished into the blue – or, more accurately, into your cozy love nest with Mr. Carson."

" _Vanished_ is hardly the right word," Elsie raises an eyebrow. Her friend is prone to exaggeration. "I've been up to the big house several times. And not always to see Mrs. Baxter, or the children. I've seen you!"

"A few times," Beryl concedes. She sets the tray on the table and sits down. "But I can't remember the last time we had a proper chat. Now tell me about Withernsea and your visit."

Elsie tells her all the details of her and Charlie's visit over tea – except the news of Anna's new baby. The former lady's maid has not told Lady Mary yet, and does not want word to get around Downton before then.

Beryl gushes over the new photograph of Will. It was taken during the Carsons' visit. He sits in a little chair, rather solemn.

"He looks like his father there. He's growing so fast," Beryl says wistfully. "All children do, I suppose. Do you know when they will visit here? Christmas?"

Shaking her head, Elsie takes the photograph back. "Not until after the New Year. Mr. Bates mentioned that they would perhaps come for a visit in the late winter. Business is slower then." She sets aside the photograph and glances at the wall above the kitchen table. "I meant to ask you where _that_ photograph came from," she points at one in the center of the wall, the place of prominence. "And why you have it here in the kitchen. Though I can guess."

The black and white still was taken outdoors, that much she can tell. A familiar young woman leans against a tree, her face turned toward the camera in a simple pose.

It is Lady Sybil.

Beryl sets down her cup. "It's from Mr. Branson, of course," she says, her voice unusually quiet. "He came down to the kitchen a month ago, to see what Miss Sybbie was up to. I was baking a cake for Mr. Talbot's birthday, and she asked if she could bake one, too." She blinks and gives Elsie a knowing smile, her blue eyes soft. "I would never say no. Not to that."

"And Mr. Branson saw his little girl baking in the kitchen with you."

Elsie has heard the story from Charlie about Lady Sybil during the war. How she went to the kitchen and asked Mrs. Patmore and Daisy for help in how to cook.

It is an added poignancy that her daughter would do the same.

"He did," Beryl sighs, dabbing her eyes with her napkin. "He was very proud of her, and told her so. After dinner that night, he came back downstairs with that picture. He told me to keep it…that Sybil would've wanted me to have it."

"That's lovely," whispers Elsie, tearing up herself. "Where was it taken?"

"Dublin. After they married. I thought about hanging it in the sitting room. Something pretty for folks to look at, but I didn't want to give the family the wrong impression. Like I was showing her off. It feels right having her in here. Watching while I make tea, make messes, and yell at Lucy."

Elsie laughs through her tears. "Of everyone in the family, Lady Sybil would be the least shocked with your yelling. Other than Mr. Branson, of course."

The two laugh and reminisce about days gone by, about times before the war. Before things had changed so dramatically; before the two of them had bonded through mutual respect and friendship.

"A lot has changed since then," Beryl says, hanging up the towel when the washing-up is done. "So much so I would never have believed it." She hands Elsie her hat, and gets her coat.

"Nor I." Elsie puts on her hat. "I never would have thought that I would be married – much less to Mr. Carson!"

There are times she wakes in the morning, and half expects to still be in her old room in the attic.

Alone.

" _I_ would've," Beryl snorts as they go out the door. She locks the door behind her, as there are no guests staying that night. "If his Lordship had never sent me to London to fix my eyes, and I would've gone stone blind, I still would have thought you and The Great One would end up saying 'I do'. It was plain as the nose on my face."

The November dusk is cold, but clear. Making their way to the Abbey, the women stop to look at the great house. The lights burn from inside.

"Well," Beryl says after a long silence, "we'd best get a move on. Daisy will think I've forgotten to come back and help with dinner, and Mr. Carson will think you've abandoned him to Mr. Barrow."

"Once he would have considered that a fate worse than death," Elsie mutters drily, "But Mr. Barrow has improved a great deal."

 _Not that Mr. Carson prefers anyone's company over mine._

 _Or that I prefer anyone over him._

She loves Mrs. Patmore, and many of her friends. But she only has one _best_ friend.

He has been her friend for many, many years.

In the hallway, they hear the raised voice of Daisy ringing from the kitchen.

"Not like _that!_ Are you daft!?"

"Ooh," Beryl wrinkles her nose. "Who taught her to shout like that? If she keeps that up, Annabelle won't come back, and we won't have any help at all-"

She rushes into the kitchen.

Charles sits at the long table in the servants' hall, in the former housekeeper's old seat. He and Andrew are deep in discussion, but his eyes light up when he sees his wife.

"Ah," he stands up. "I wondered when you would be back. Mr. Barrow rang the gong five minutes ago."

"I'd better go," Andrew says, straightening his coat. "Good night, Mr. Carson. Mrs. Carson."

"We had better go before dinner has started, or else you'll be tempted to oversee the whole thing," Elsie kisses her husband on the cheek.

"You're probably right. Though Mr. Barrow has things well in hand." He follows her into the hallway and she helps him into his coat. He glances once in the direction of the staircase, but represses the urge to check with Mr. Barrow, to see if there is anything he can do to help.

"It is hard to let go of old habits," Elsie says when they are out in the cold air again. Her arms is through his. "Especially when you are used to doing the same thing for fifty years."

"True," he smiles. "But life does move on, and change." He reaches over and covers her gloved hand on his arm with his other hand. "Not all changes are bad ones."

Her laugh bubbles up into the dark sky. "And that is something you would never have believed you'd say ten years ago."

"Not at all. Nor this." He leans over and whispers in her ear, though they are alone.

Elsie blushes and thinks of Mrs. Patmore's teasing.

 _Calling our home a 'love nest'!_

How much more would the cook tease them, she thinks, if she could hear Charlie's words?

"Let's hurry home, love. I've missed you this afternoon."

She has missed him, too.

The Abbey recedes behind them, and home beckons.


	7. School

**A/N: So Hogwarts Duo beat me to this Sunday's apparent theme of Sybbie and the Carsons. Please read her lovely story, "Happiness", if you haven't already.**

 **Thank you so much for your reviews from last week! I do so appreciate them…I will try to be better about replying to them. Work's been crazy.**

 **Have a good week, and Chelsie on!**

* * *

Charles stands inside, the front door of the cottage halfway open. The air makes him shiver.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" Elsie asks again. Her hat is low, protecting her face. "I know we planned on a walk this afternoon…"

"Go," he gestures to her. "Our walk will wait; Mrs. Neely will not. She needs you more than I do now."

She smiles. "That's never true. I'll be back before dinner, not to worry." She hurries towards the lane.

The remains of lunch are on the table. Charles carefully carries dishes into the kitchen. He wipes off the table, sweeps the floor, and then does most of the dishes. He leaves the big pot that had held the soup to soak.

The clock ticks in the sitting room.

Despite his encouraging Elsie to go help their neighbor, he misses her. The house is too quiet.

"It's for the best," he sighs, sinking into his chair. The black cat who once came to their back door and stayed put, pads across the room and leaps onto his lap. "Mrs. Neely's at her wits end, Poirot," Charles pets him. "All four of her children have caught the flu, and now she has it, too."

He and Elsie both have had it – her first, then him. They are well now, otherwise Elsie would not have risked infection again by exposing herself to it. She is busy doing chores for her neighbor while Mrs. Neely and the children recover.

"Mrs. Baxter says nearly all the staff have had it at the Abbey, and most of the children at the school in the village. Mr. Molesley told her that."

Poirot cleans himself. Whether he is listening or not, Charles likes to talk to him.

 _It is not as though everyone always listened to me when I was the butler. As much as I liked to think they did._

He finishes _The Times_ from yesterday, and is deeply engrossed in a history of the Crimean War when there is a loud knock on the door.

"Mr. Branson!" He says, surprised both to see the young man, and that he did not hear the motor outside the cottage. The presence of Mr. Branson's daughter is another surprise. "And Miss Sybbie, good afternoon. What brings you here?"

It is rather embarrassing – he is not wearing a coat, but is simply in his shirtsleeves and braces.

 _What if it had been Lady Mary?_

The thought that it might have been his Lordship – or god forbid, the Dowager - is too hideous to fathom.

"I'm terribly sorry to burst in on you like this," Mr. Branson speaks so fast he almost trips over his words. "But I was working in my office on the estate when Henry-excuse me, Mr. Talbot rang about an emergency at the shop. I would take Sybbie with me there…she arrived from school right when I hung up the telephone, but there's an angry customer with Henry, and I don't want my daughter hearing any, erm, bad language-"

"Why not take her to the Abbey?" Charles asks. He is not being rude. He is simply trying to understand.

"They're still recovering from the flu." Mr. Branson removes his hat and runs a hand through his hair. "George is better, if weak, and Nanny is still in bed. Cora-Lady Grantham, I mean, has been watching George. She agreed with me that Sybbie should stay away until the flu is well and truly gone."

"Of course." It makes sense.

What does not make sense to Charles is why Mr. Branson and his daughter are at the Carsons' house.

"Mrs. Tucker heard me talking to Lady Grantham, and she suggested I bring Sybbie here," the young man explains.

Charles stifles the urge to roll his eyes. Mrs. Tucker has replaced Mrs. Wigan as the community gossip. On the surface, it would not have seemed possible.

 _It's easy work for the telephone operator._

She often listens in on conversations. More than once, not hearing her hang up, Charles has asked her if she listens to his Lordship's telephone conversations as often as she has listened to his.

"And was Mrs. Tucker aware that Mrs. Carson is not at home?" He asks, guessing the answer.

"She was," Mr. Branson admits. "She was listening when Mrs. Neely rang here. Mrs. Tucker took the liberty of ringing the Neelys. Mrs. Carson answered, and when she heard what happened, _she_ told me to bring Sybbie here, since the Neelys all have the flu. She said you wouldn't mind looking after Sybbie. I should be back before dinner. If it had been Mrs. Tucker's suggestion only, I would have thought of another solution, but it being all right with Mrs. Carson…"

Sybbie smiles up at Charles.

He opens the door wider, never mind the cold November air seeping in. "Come in, and welcome," he says. "It's too cold for a young girl like yourself to be outside for long."

Mr. Branson puts his hat back on. "Thank you so much," he says gratefully. "She'll be no trouble. Sybbie, darling, I'll see you before dinner. Behave for Mr. Carson."

"Yes, Daddy." She gives him a hug, and he kisses her cheek.

Inside the corridor, Charles helps Sybbie take off her coat. He hangs it up along with her hat. By the time he has done this, she has disappeared into the sitting room.

"You have a nice house," she says, touching every piece of furniture and looking at the pictures scattered about the room. "Oh! There's Aunt Mary, from when she married Uncle Henry."

"Yes," Charles sets the little frame further back on the shelf. "It is a picture from her wedding day."

He feels uneasy with her here in his home. It occurs to him that the last time he was completely alone with Sybbie Branson was when the family had all gone up to Duneagle.

Except for Mr. Branson and his then-baby daughter.

 _Then I could carry her about and show her things. Now she's old enough to wander on her own._

He and Elsie have made their home theirs, and they both love it, but he is aware that there is not much there to amuse a little girl. Usually he sees Miss Sybbie and Master George in the nursery at the Abbey, where there are plenty of toys and books.

"What is this?" Sybbie asks, pointing at the chess board. Her finger knocks over the king. The wooden piece falls onto the floor. "Oops. Sorry." She puts her hands behind her back.

Picking it up, Charles replaces it on the board and straightens several of the other pieces that had been knocked askew. "It's a chess set. It's a game Mrs. Carson and I play from time to time. Your father might know it-"

"A cat! Ooh, what's her name?" Sybbie somehow manages to grab Poirot off the loveseat before he leaps away. She cuddles her cheek against his dark fur, and he purrs.

" _His_ name is Poirot. Mrs. Carson named him."

 _I wanted to name him Holmes, but she won that argument. As usual. She finds it amusing that we have a cat with a foreign name._

"I'm going to call him Lucky," Sybbie announces, not listening. "He's lucky to live in a nice house with you and Mrs. Carson." She kisses the cat on the head and lets him tumble out of her arms and onto the floor. He winds himself around her short legs. "Mr. Carson, will you play with me?"

He feels touched that she praises his home and their cat, too. "O-of course. We don't have many games, but chess is a good one to begin learning."

"Not _that_ ," she plops down on the ottoman. "Let's play school!"

 _Ah. Her favorite game. She likes to play with Master George._

"Very well." He glances around the room. "Why don't you sit in my chair over there, and I will stand here."

She frowns. "I shouldn't sit in your chair."

 _Her father has taught her respect, I will give him that._

Blinking rapidly, he thinks of a better plan. "You would fit better in Mrs. Carson's chair. She won't mind. I will turn it so you can see me better."

She shakes her head, her brown hair whipping back and forth. "Students sit in chairs. The teacher stands and teaches the lesson." She grins. " _I_ am the teacher. _You_ are the student."

Of course the little girl wants to play the teacher. He should have known.

The memory of Elsie's voice in the London house comes back to him. _"Well, thank heaven you got there in the end!_ "

Still, the thought of Sybbie pretending to be a teacher reminds him of the uncomfortable memory of Miss Bunting.

 _Mr. Branson should have had better taste._

"Are you sure?" He asks. "I'm a bit old to be a student."

"Miss Davis says we're never too old to learn things." Sybbie chirps, grabbing a book and his glasses from the little table next to his chair. "Class, be seated," she says politely. There is a hint of authority in her young voice that is so reminiscent of Lady Sybil it almost brings tears to his eyes.

Holding the book in her small hands, she repeats herself. "Class, be _seated_."

He sits down in his own chair. "I have a book, and paper, and a pen too," he says. "Miss Branson." On the little table there are several loose sheets of paper from when Elsie had written a letter that morning.

Sybbie smiles and nods at him. "Very good." She perches his glasses on the end of her nose, and he clears his throat to keep from laughing. Her expression is serious.

First she gives him sums. Then she meticulously writes several words, and has him copy them. She praises his spelling and penmanship.

"Thank you," he says. "I've worked hard to make my writing as neat as possible."

"You're top of the class," she grins. "Well done, Mr. Carson."

She is delighted to find an atlas of Great Britain (pointed out by him), and they bend over it. She points out counties. It is apparent to him that she does not know much about geography, but as she asks the questions and he answers the best he can, he goes along with her pretending to be the teacher.

"Oh! This is Yorkshire. Where we live," she says when he turns a page. "Here's York…and Ripon – and Downton! This dot here." Her finger squashes over the name.

"Why, so it is," he answers. His glasses slip off her face onto the table as she bends over, and he picks them up and puts them on. "And over here, Thirsk."

"Did you ever go to school, Mr. Carson?" She asks, seemingly forgetting their playing school.

There is a soft tapping on the window. He turns. Whether it is freezing rain, or very wet snow, he cannot tell. He hopes Elsie will be able to walk home.

 _She will ring the house for the motor if she can't._

"I did when I was a boy. For a short time," he answers Sybbie's question. "I learned to read, and write, and to do sums. A little history and geography. But most of what I have learned was _not_ at a school."

"What have you learned?" She asks.

Such a simple question, but also a hard one. Memories flit through his brain.

Stocking the wine cellar, keeping the ledgers. Polishing the silver.

And learning other things; things that cannot be learned in books.

Leaving Downton as a young lad, going to the city. Trying his luck on stage.

Coming home humbled.

Getting a second chance.

 _Not every teacher is in a classroom._

Learning that some people can be thoughtless, and unkind, and are capable of breaking hearts.

Learning that others can be generous, and forgiving.

" _My dear fellow, we all have chapters that we would rather keep unpublished._ "

And that some people stitch up wounds when the ones bearing them might be content to let them linger.

" _Mr. Carson…you are a man of integrity and honor, who raises the tone of this household by being part of it."_

Mr. Bates and Anna have never divulged his secret. Lady Sybil never did either, not even to tell her oldest sister.

Elsie only knows about his past on the stage because he has told her.

He has learned about the fragility of life, how it can be there one moment and gone the next.

How to treasure the moments he has.

He is suddenly aware of Sybbie, kneeling on his wife's chair, her little hand resting on her cheek. Patiently waiting.

"I've learned about life, Miss Branson," he smiles at her. "And about the most important thing. Love."

He touches the end of her nose, making her giggle. Poirot meows from the floor. She scrambles down and scoops him up, hugging him close. The cat doesn't seem to mind being a little squashed.

"I love you, Lucky," she murmurs.

There is something else she loves – tea, and good biscuits. Fortunately, there is plenty of both for her and for her student, Mr. Carson.


	8. Senses

**A/N: A short one this week, something different. Thank you all** **so much** **for your kind reviews, with a shout out to those I can't respond to.**

 **Have a great week!**

* * *

 **Hearing**

She has always loved the sound of his voice.

Now she hears it in ways she never did before.

He hums when he reads. His bass tone is lowered to a quiet, gentle murmur when he strokes Poirot's ears, and on the occasions when they are able to visit Becky.

Miss Sybbie and Master George always beg him to read them a story whenever he visits the Abbey. Perhaps it is not so surprising that he speaks all the voices of the characters – at least, it is not a surprise to her. Or to Lady Mary, who reminisces fondly of when the former butler read _Sleeping Beauty_ to her as a child.

Sometimes Elsie misses the days when his voice boomed in the servants' hall. When they worked side by side, overseeing the staff and keeping the great house running.

But she does not miss those days often.

Not when they can linger over tea in their own home, and he reads aloud from the newspaper.

When she can hear him singing as he takes a bath.

When he takes her in his arms in their darkened sitting room and whispers in her ear, "I love you."

* * *

 **Sight**

He has always admired the way she looked.

Now he sees her in ways he never did before.

She has always carried herself with dignity – whether striding along the hallways in the Abbey before the war, her chatelaine jingling at her hip. She didn't know then (but she knows now) that more than once after he would pass her downstairs, he would turn slightly, just to watch the cadence of her walk.

He enjoys seeing her in her favorite blue blouse. Her concentration as she knits booties for Anna's new baby.

Her sparkling eyes as she teases him, sitting across the table at dinner.

Her long hair drying after she gets out of the bath, the ends curling, and the greying strands framing her face.

Her soft smile when she reaches for him in the morning. It is the smile just for him, when they are alone.

* * *

 **Smell**

Their home is filled with smells they have both come to love.

His shaving cream. Her lavender-scented soap.

Chocolate biscuits, fresh from the oven. Bacon and buttered toast in the morning.

Burned toast, if he makes it.

Roast chicken made from a recipe given by Mrs. Patmore.

His cricket whites after they are freshly laundered.

The wood-smoke from the fire in the evening. Climbing roses in the back garden.

The scent of her perfume that he bought for her as a birthday gift.

* * *

 **Taste**

Hot tea on cold days, she loves. Any day, really.

He enjoys reliving his boyhood, and catching the first snowflake of the season on his tongue – when only she can see him, of course.

And Miss Sybbie.

All three of them devour the sweet apple tart.

The roast, boiled potatoes, and carrots fairly melt in their mouths.

Sybbie gets whipped cream on her upper lip drinking her hot chocolate.

After the little girl goes to bed, the couple finds other tastes to savor. Sherry brings back memories for both the Carsons, and gives them memories to cherish going forward.

* * *

 **Touch**

Holding hands as they read on the loveseat. The whisper of his hands on her arms when he helps her out of her coat.

Her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. "You have a bit of whipped cream there," she laughs. He grabs her hand and kisses her thumb, taking back the cream.

The feel of her fingers in his hair as she massages his head. His warm bulk, solid against her.

His trembling hand between her two sure ones. Her feet in his lap.

The softness of his lips on hers. The smoothness of her skin. His stubble on his chin, scratching her collarbone. Her breath against the hair on his chest.

Their hands clasped together, their limbs tangled.


	9. Lucky

Frost tints the windows of the cottage on a grey Sunday afternoon.

Inside, it is warm.

Charles dangles a string from Elsie's sewing basket, pulling it up as Poirot swipes at it. The cat's frustration makes him laugh.

"Stop _teasing_ him," his wife calls from the kitchen.

He fists the string and bends over from his chair, rubbing Poirot's ears. "Who says I'm teasing him? He's a cat, he does funny things-"

Coming into the sitting room carrying the tea tray, Elsie rolls her eyes. "You are a hopeless liar, Charlie Carson. I know very well you're dangling that yarn so he can't reach it." Steam rises from the teapot as she fills their cups.

He feels like Sybbie, caught taking another biscuit from the plate. "How did you know?" He asks. He tosses the string back into the sewing basket. "Really? I was still writing to Mr. Bates when you went into the kitchen!"

His befuddled expression makes her mouth twitch, and it is her turn to laugh. "My dear man," she sits down, leaning over to touch his knee, "Have you forgotten you were doing that very same thing yesterday morning? More important, have you forgotten that I know _you?_ "

"I would never forget that," he smiles. He cuts the corner of his cake with his fork. "But I don't understand – I know you too, but I can't know with any certainty what you're doing when I can't see you."

"We women have our ways of knowing these things," she says with a mysterious smile that makes his heart skip. Her eyes dance. "As for not knowing what I am doing when you can't see me…last night, you seemed to know very well what I was _going_ to do. All while the light was off, of course."

Her reply is so unexpected he drops his fork. It clatters onto his plate. It is not that he is embarrassed; they have been married long enough that he knows how they both enjoy certain aspects of their life together. Nor is he angry with her.

It is just that at times he is still awed that this is his _life_ – that he did, finally, propose to Elsie Hughes, long-time housekeeper at Downton Abbey; that they fudged their way through wedding planning and married on that glorious day in front of the family and their friends. That they overcame several bumps in their early days together as man and wife; that despite his sudden retirement and her more anticipated one, that she, _she_ , is the woman that he gets to share his days (and nights) with.

 _I am the luckiest man in the world._

She has grown bolder with him when they are alone. Her talking of intimacy openly - though always when they are alone at home - is still new.

He realizes he has not answered her. "Fortunately," he raises his eyebrows, "You had no objection when I kissed you first." He picks up his fork again and takes a bite of his cake, closing his eyes in bliss at its sweetness.

Elsie smiles at him over her cup. "I never do." These quiet moments alone, when it is just the two of them, she relishes over nearly everything else.

 _When we were in service we hardly had a moment alone._

They sit, enjoying their tea and discussing various things. A planned trip together to Ripon during the coming week; their neighbor Mrs. Neely helping Elsie sew new curtains; Charles's meeting with Mr. Barrow on Tuesday to discuss in detail changes – in particular, what to do about the wine cellar. Lord Grantham has never returned to drinking alcohol regularly, and he likely never will. Mr. Talbot and Mr. Branson both drink wine, as do the women, but their tastes are different. And times are moving on. Mr. Barrow has to shoulder more duties that his predecessor never had to.

Lady Mary wants to keep the cellar as it is.

"For Master George's sake," Charles says, setting down his cup. "She says it would be lovely for him to have an established wine collection once he inherits Downton."

"Which will be no time soon, God willing," Elsie is tempted to roll her eyes. "She wants to keep it as a memory of _you_ , never mind her son!"

"It's not about me," he protests. "Wine is integral to entertaining. They can't very well have dinner parties, without it. Mr. Barrow agrees with me."

She can't help but laugh. "How often does that happen?" She sighs, shaking her head. "Well, I'm sure between the two of you, a solution will present itself. But try to remember that he does not have as much time as you did when you were butler."

"I know." He gathers the empty dishes and sets them back on the tea tray. His hands are not shaking today, so he picks it up and carries it into the kitchen.

When he returns to the sitting room, he finds his wife with Poirot on her lap. The black cat purrs, rubbing his head against her leg as she pets him.

"Doesn't he know he's not allowed to do that?" Charles says gruffly, putting on his best stern butler face. As he hoped, Elsie looks up at him with her eyebrows raised.

"He can do as he pleases." A smile grows on her face as she cuddles the cat. "As can you. It's always nice to know one is loved."

Charles sits down rather precariously on the arm of her chair, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "You are, you know. Very much. And it costs me nothing to say it." He rumbles in the voice he knows she loves and kisses the top of her head. Poirot meows. "Oh all right, you too."

Leaning into him, Elsie sighs happily. "I love you, Charlie."

Her heart is full. Hearing her own words, spoken at a time when she never thought she would be able to speak openly, brings tears to her eyes.

They are happy ones.

 _My husband loves me, as I love him._

 _I am the luckiest woman in the world._


End file.
